


Going underground

by kenwayallgetalong



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Non-Operation Kingfish Compliant, Smoking, The Gulag, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenwayallgetalong/pseuds/kenwayallgetalong
Summary: Captain John Mactavish meeting Prisoner 627 for the first time.





	Going underground

Soap dropped through the hole in the floor, knees bending to absorb the shock, frigid water splashing up his tac suit. _Bloody Russia._

“Ghost, we’re in the old tunnel system heading south-south west.” Roach landed next to him, slightly less gracefully, as Ghost replied. 

“Ok, keep heading along that tunnel.” He risked a look back up into the showers, then lifted his M4A1 and started moving, feet sloshing through the turgid water as they searched for Prisoner 627. _This had better be worth it,_ Soap thought to himself, as he commed Ghost. 

“Talk to me Ghost, I don’t want to be down here when those ships start firing again.” _Bloody Yanks need to learn a thing or two about danger close._

“I’m detecting two heat signatures, one of them should be Prisoner 627!” Ghost yelled. 

_Finally. Makarov’s prize._

Soap and Roach slid down to the wall below, Roach readying a breaching charge, moving in perfect sync. They stacked up, ready to breach, Soap behind Roach. Not his preferred way, he always went for the other side of the entrance point to maximise coverage, but speed was their priority, and they only had two possible threats to deal with (depending how Prisoner 627 felt about being rescued).

Soap squeezed Roach’s shoulder and the wall exploded, Roach moving in, gun ready. Soap was close behind, and a body came sailing out, knocking him on his arse. One of the Russians, Roach’s bullets already in his chest, and cuffs tangled around his neck. Soap shoved the body off him, his rifle tangled up in his webbing, and stood.

627 was standing over Roach in the dim light, holding a rifle in his face. _Bastard,_ Soap growled internally, moving on pure instinct. Rifle tangled, he dropped it to hang round his chest, ripping his M1911 from its holster.

_Close quarters, almost intimate. Right in, base of the skull. If the bastard tries anything, drop him._

He rushed in, jamming the steel just below the prisoner’s hat. “Drop it!” he barked, flicking the safety off and cocking the hammer, as he saw 627’s features properly. The scarred, gaunt face. The familiar eyes. He turned, eyes wide and confused, the name falling from cracked lips.

“Soap?” he muttered, almost disbelieving. And suddenly he wasn’t Captain Mactavish of Task Force 141. He was the FNG in Credenhill.

_No._

_No._

_It couldn’t be._

_He’d died on the bridge._

He’d seen Griggs get shot, Zakhaev execute Gaz, and Price slowly bleed out. He’d been seeing them ever since. Faces on the street, enemy combatants. His nightmares. Faces from his past. But he was _here_ and he was _real_ and he was-.

Price.

“Price?” he breathed, as if saying it any louder would make it untrue. It was _Price_. Price was _alive._ He tamped down on his treacherous emotions threatening to overwhelm him, and did what he’d been wanting to for nearly five years. Flipping the M1911 into his free hand, he stuck it out to Price, handle towards him. “This belongs to you sir.” Price took it, numbly looking back at Soap, the barest hint of a smile visible under his beard. 

“Who’s Soap?” Worm asked, rushing in, and Mactavish could barely suppress a groan, before the room shook, and he snapped back to the present. “Get up! We gotta get the hell out of here!” he yelled, grabbing Price’s shoulders and pushing them for the exit.

-

It wasn’t until they were back on the chopper, and the mission adrenaline had begun to fade, leaving him weak and rubbery, sitting opposite Price. Roach sat next to them, while Ghost checked Roach’s nose (not broken, apparently, despite Price’s mean right hook), and Price made half-hearted apologies. 

“So. You’re not dead.” Soap said, breaking the silence. Price sat back and exhaled heavily. 

“Nah. They gave it their best shot though.” 

Soap chuckled. 

“You’re doing good though.” Price continued. “Mohawk’s a bit much.” 

“Cool it old man, I haven’t grown a moustache yet.”

“Yeah, keep trying son, one day you’ll have enough hair on your face to call a beard.” 

Soap smiled openly at that. This felt all too familiar, like the old days in the SAS. Shooting the shit and rinsing each other on the adrenaline comedown after a mission. One thing was missing though. Soap dug in his tac vest and pulled out a pair of Villa Claras, Price’s preferred brand. He handed one over, smiling at Price’s reverent look. 

“You know how to treat a man.” Price grinned, smelling it as Soap lit his own cigar and passed the lighter to Price. He followed suit, taking a deep pull. “Christ Almighty I’ve missed these.” He glanced at Soap’s lighter, the steel zippo Shepherd had given him, with the 141 logo printed on the side. “Sharp.” Price smiled, thumb brushing over the skull. 

“Keep it.” Soap said, leaning back in his seat and enjoying his cigar. Ghost pulled his mask halfway up and lit up a cigarette, content to stay quiet, and Roach just folded his arms and went to sleep. 

“Task Force 141 eh?’ Price said, raising an eyebrow. “When’d that happen?”

“After Zakhaev.” Soap answered shortly. “Taking down Makarov’s our primary objective.” _Our only objective._

“Well.” Price said shortly, then grinned again. “Any room for one more?” Soap could only smile at that. 

“Hopefully you can keep up, old man.” He smiled back, making a mental note to _immediately_ resign his command of the One-Four-One and recommend Price in his place. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and stared back at Price’s face, wreathed in their mingling clouds of smoke. 

“War’s not over yet.”


End file.
